


Early Bird Gets the Worm

by orphan_account



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: M/M, Masturbation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-31
Updated: 2012-12-31
Packaged: 2017-11-23 03:35:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/617622
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It must be reiterated: Stiles doesn't <i>mean</i> to forget about the brooding pall of manpain that's sleeping on his floor. None of the following was intentional—but seriously, Stiles is a young man with an appropriately young libido and a <i>routine</i>. He wakes up most mornings with wood, what else is there to do but indulge it, right?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Early Bird Gets the Worm

**Author's Note:**

> I came up with this idea sometime last week and finally got around to it. Just straight up, unapologetic porn.
> 
> <3

It isn’t as though Stiles  _meant_  to forget that he went to bed with an on-the-run Alpha curled asleep on his bedroom floor.

It just happened.

)

“You look like shit.” Stiles comments when Derek shows up, bloody and healing and wet—it’s pissing rain outside, of course he’s soaked—at his windowsill. “Seriously. Shit.” Derek bares his teeth in a growl and motions impatiently for Stiles to move away from the window. Stiles obeys but complains all the while. “Dude that’s gonna leave a huge wet stain in the carpet, dude, c’mon, you couldn’t at least use the front door? My dad’s not even home, and the kitchen is  _tiled_.”

Derek just huffs and strips down to his still dripping jeans; his jacket and shirt are dropped into a sopping pile that Stiles reluctantly picks up and carries to the wash room down the stairs. On his way back to his room he grabs a shirt and pair of sweats from his dad’s room.

“Okay, shower, then change.” Stiles grumps, tossing the clothes at Derek.

Derek looks like he wants to protest, but a pretty violent shiver works through his body and basically quells any argument he couldn’t made.

“Don’t use all the hot water, dick.” Stiles reminds as Derek darts to the bathroom. He stares at the wet spots trailing around his bedroom; it starts as a giant fucking puddle at the edge of the window, and tapers off into hideously damp footsteps. Stiles sticks his head into the hall and looks in the direction of the bathroom. “Take off your shoes, too, asshole!”

He thinks he hears a muted snort, but favors ignoring it.

)

Twenty minutes later Derek steps into his room in sweats that fall in pools of fabric at his feet, but are cinched comfortably at the waist. He’s forgone the shirt, though. “Great, because shirts are optional, totally.” Stiles barks, swinging his hands to the makeshift nest he’s thrown on the floor. “Blankets, pillows, floor.” He falls into his own bed. “Sleep.”

Derek, surprisingly enough, obeys and sinks into the nest, pulling the blankets around him and settling in easily. “I’m amazed you aren’t asking questions.”

“Dude this is like the least weird thing that’s happened in weeks. I’m assuming Argents.”

“Extended family of.”

“Oh jeez.” Stiles rolls over onto his stomach, breathing and speech obscured by the pillow he’s pressing his face into. “So glad Scott’s dating Isaac.”

Derek makes an unhappy noise but Stiles ignores it.

)

It must be reiterated: Stiles doesn’t  _mean_  to forget about the brooding pall of manpain that’s sleeping on his floor. None of the following was intentional—but seriously, Stiles is a young man with an appropriately young libido and a _routine_. He wakes up most mornings with wood, what else is there to do but indulge it, right?

)

The sun streams in endlessly, because the curtains were left open; they stream in right on Stiles’ face and pester him into waking, however groggily. In the night he’s shifted from laying on his stomach to sprawled on his back, limbs akimbo and mouth full of drool and dry from snoring. He snorts and reaches blindly for the cup beside his bed, intent on not swallowing the drool—because, wow  _ick_.

He sets the cup back and just lays in the warmth of his bed, running his hands along the covers, kicking his legs about, realizing his dick is hard in his sleep pants.

Stiles grins and stops flailing, and instead slides a lazy hand into his pants. He grabs his dick and leisurely starts to stroke, calling to mind any number of images he likes—certain scenes from certain porns, certain flits of naked chests in the locker room, the one time during a fight that Erica’s shirt was torn to shreds, the same day she was wearing a black and modest bra. (Modesty was sexy, okay? Totally.)

Stiles sighs through his nose and bends his legs at the knees. He wanders another hand into his pants to fondle his balls, to light up his nerves with gentle and teasing touches to the insides of his thighs, his taint, the crease of his hips and thigh. His hips work in slow motions as he really grips himself and starts to stroke in earnest. His breathing falls faster from his lips, now,

His mind continues to drift, drawing on the dirtiest thing he’s seen to the most simple things he finds sexy. Eventually, inevitably, as it does, his mind drifts to Derek—Derek training, Derek growling, Derek wolfing out, Derek coming back into his room all showered and damp and flushed with color in baggy sweats and a snarl in place because  _he is sleeping on the bedroom floor holy mother of fuck_.

It is not Stiles’ proudest moment that he shouts in surprise and shoots into a sitting position as he comes inside his pajama pants.

He meeps and slowly looks over to the pile of blankets beside his bed. Derek meets his eyes.

“Oh god I’m gonna throw myself off a building.” Stiles groans, fumbling with sticky hands to strangle himself with his blankets, suffocate himself with his pillows maybe. He’s moaning and groaning and coming close to crying in embarrassment when the bed dips with another’s weight. “Oh my god please don’t kill me. Or maybe do, just put me out of my misery right now, no questions asked.”

Derek tugs the covers away and Stiles lets out what he assumes will be his last shriek.

And it is.

But not because Derek killed him.

Unless you can be killed by a kiss, which is some Disney Pixar shit, right there.

Stiles’ eyes shoot open—when had they closed, is the question—and he opens his mouth to, of course, talk. But Derek just sticks his tongue in Stiles’ mouth, not gross or intruding but slick and inviting, tantalizing,  _playful_  even. Stiles moans as Derek sucks on his tongue, laps at all sides of his mouth, licking across his teeth. His dick twitches hopefully in his pajamas and Derek’s nostrils flare.

“Oh my god, need to breath.” Stiles shoves him back just enough to gasp for air. Derek smirks down at him. “You—what the fuck is this? What?”

Derek covers his body, head to toe they’re touching as much as possible. “Too many questions.”

Stiles whimpers, watching as Derek’s rolls his hips slowly against Stiles’. The look on Derek’s face is reverent, calm and pleased and a little slack. “Oh god,” Stiles hiccups, all blushing virgin at exactly the wrong time. Derek sits up undeterred and drags the sweatpants down enough so that they hook behind his balls.

“Is this okay?” Derek actually  _asks_ , pausing with his fingertips at the hem of Stiles’ pants.

Stiles just nods, hands knotted in the sheets. Derek grins and kisses him softly while untucking his still damp cock from his sleep pants. Stiles lets out a shuddering breath and Derek takes it in with a lick of his lips.

“You’re such a teenager.” Derek says, but instead of sounding old and grumpy it sounds pleased, breathless and wrecked. Derek wraps a hand around both their dicks and strokes them in time. “Waking up with morning wood with a guest in the room.”

“I forgot!” Stiles tries to defend himself, but to be fair his mind turns to mush the minute his dick is against Derek’s own. “Jesus, don’t stop.”

“Are you gonna come? Embarrassingly fast?”

Stiles nods, biting his lip. Derek hunches over him and sticks a thumb in Stiles’ mouth, holding his mouth open. “I want to hear you,” Derek says as he trails bite marks across Stiles’ neck and nibbles on his ear. “C’mon.”

Stiles lets out a long moan and comes just like that, overly sensitive and hips jerking into Derek’s grasp. Derek sits up and surveys the mess on his hand, lets Stiles’ cock slide from his grip to instead jerk himself with full focus. Stiles watches and wishes he could get hard _again_. Derek lets out a guttural groan, a roar nearly, and comes across the expanse of skin displayed between the end of Stiles’ shirt and where his pants are tucked down mid thigh.

Stiles lets out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

Derek just slides down to lay on him, half beside him. Derek lazily plants kisses on Stiles’ neck and cheek and jaw and ear. “Sleep. We’ve got time.”

Stiles tenses for a moment, until Derek has rolled him so that they’re chest to chest and wrapped like octopi around each other. Stiles figures this is either the best day of his life or the most unfair wet dream he’s ever had, and settles in for a few more hours of sleep.


End file.
